Melissa Grant Writes

I’m very fair, green-eyed, pink and freckled, with fuzzy curly hair.

Is my hair orange like my main character’s?

Nope, and I’m pretty mad about it.

Was it red when I was younger?

Also yes, but like my mother’s, it faded to a mousey color pretty early on.

My sister, however, got a glorious head of fire-red, thick, curly hair that cascaded in ringlets down her back.

And no freckles.

I’m mad about that too.

I got a pixie.

Let me just say, people with fuzzy, curly hair who are tall, with horse heads and giraffe necks, should NEVER have pixies.

But I would NOT comb my hair…EVER. I have distinct childhood memories of sitting in front of Saturday morning cartoons while my mother attempted to comb out the giant mat that had mysteriously formed on the back of my head while I slept.

Eventually, she gave up and took me to Carmen, the local hairdresser, who would buzz it all off and give me a penny for my trouble.

A flipping penny.

Bastard.

Since I was also tall for my age, no one believed I was as young as I was, and eventually they had to get me a state-issued ID so I could get kid prices at the movies.

I was also mistaken for a boy pretty often.

Sigh.

I think someone was asleep at the switch when my sister and I were given our respective genetic attributes. I should have had none of the ginger characteristics or all of them.

But as good old mom used to say, “Life isn’t fair.”

Thanks, Mom.

I turn pink at the slightest temperature change, and people can be counted on to draw attention to it pretty dang quickly: “Are you ok?”

I’M FINE!

On top of all that, I am Irish and Scottish, and I have rosacea.

Double plus sigh.

I learned early on that heat and sun made all that worse and drew attention to my boyish, horse-headed, giraffe-necked self. So, I avoided all that nonsense as much as possible.

In Washington State, for 8 months out of the year, this is fairly easy. But June through September have always felt like they had a personal vendetta against me.

I’ve carried this sun hatred for decades.

Last year it spilled out of me into my personal villain origin story. Originally, it was going to be a fun and fluffy article for my news site.

She was born in the PNW in the blazing heat of July beneath a sun that clearly had it out for her. Her first lullaby was the hum of a fan and the distant murmur of someone saying, “Isn’t this weather amazing?” She arrived with porcelain skin and a wild frizz of orange hair as a warning to those who might suggest an afternoon by the pool.

By six, she dreaded her birthday month. Sun breaks were not breaks at all; they were attacks. Sleepaway camp meant sunburns in under five minutes. Every summer, as everyone rejoiced, she retreated into the shadows with sunscreen and resentment.

Her parents called her difficult. Dermatologists called her high risk. Friends called her dramatic when she agreed to hikes only if the trail had adequate tree cover.

However, after her 27th sunburn, something changed. The sun, smug and unrelenting, gleamed one time too many, catching her copper hair like a flare.

On her eleventh birthday, she snapped.

Now armed with SPF 100, blackout curtains, and a detailed knowledge of shade trees, she emerges scowling and squinting only under full cloud cover. They call her Cloudia Gray, the sworn protector of overcast skies and destroyer of sunny optimism.

What she doesn’t want is to rule the world; all she wants is for it to remain below 55 degrees forever.

But as I sometimes do, I went sideways into a direction I never intended and Cloudia was born.